


you won't remember all my champagne problems

by comfortcharacters



Series: evermore collection [10]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Tragic Romance, some suicidal ideation re: akechi, this is based off of champagne problems so you know it's gonna be sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29168748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comfortcharacters/pseuds/comfortcharacters
Summary: “Akechi,” Akira says, determination clouding the waver in his voice. Akechi commits the sound of it to memory. “Care to dance?”Akechi doesn’t care to dance. He doesn’t care to do much of anything, and he knew that he shouldn’t be here, that he should’ve left as soon as Akira flipped the sign on the door and turned the lights down. He should’ve left when he had a chance. But now, when Akira is looking at him like he expects him to run away, he can’t help but defiantly lean his hand out over the kitchen counter, palm face up and open. Akira smiles, genuine and bright, and Akechi has to suppress a shudder at the sight of it.(or, Akechi loves Akira, more than he's loved anyone, more than he could ever grow to love anyone.It isn't enough.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: evermore collection [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053434
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	you won't remember all my champagne problems

**Author's Note:**

> this is heavily inspired by taylor swift's "champagne problems"

Akechi likes to think of himself as a practical person. 

He approaches everything he does in life methodically, after all: completing school work, performing detective miracles, wooing the entirety of Tokyo’s teenage audience with a practiced smile.

It’s only practical, he rationalizes, to stay especially close to targets.

(Even though he swore he’d stay away.)

He repeats this to himself, as convincingly as possible, as he steps foot in Leblanc for the fourth time that week and immediately scans the room for his current mark. Said mark is in the middle of proving to Takamaki that he could balance a spoon on his nose while she cheers him on.

Akechi looks on from the doorway, unimpressed.

“Akechi!” Akira exclaims, dropping the spoon on the counter with a loud clang. He has the decency to look slightly flustered, indent on his nose contrasting with the light blush spreading along his cheekbones.

It isn’t endearing.

“Kurusu,” Akechi responds, taking his coveted seat at the counter as Akira rushes over to serve him, wiping his hands against his apron haphazardly in the process. Takamaki is looking fondly at Akira, shooting knowing glances in his direction, and Akechi doesn’t care to notice their easy familiarity (he doesn’t).

But frankly, he’s concerned for Leblanc’s reputation, given how frequently Takamaki and company steal Akira’s attention without a care, and he thinks it would only be polite if Akira actually paid attention to his customers instead of engaging in ridiculous challenges.

Especially ones that don’t involve him.

(A cursory look around shows a café that was empty before his arrival, save for the cat snoozing delicately in the corner.

So maybe Akira did have downtime, then. Sue him.)

“The usual?” Akira asks, tearing Akechi’s attention back towards him, and Akechi nods. He watches Akira move with practiced ease, predicting his movements before he even takes his next step. A part of him is embarrassed that he knows Akira’s brewing routine so intimately, memorizing it without even consciously trying – a stronger part of him is absolutely mortified that Akira knows him well enough to predict his order.

Maybe Akechi was willing to let Akira in just enough to get good coffee out of it back in the good old days (read: a week or two ago). It doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it now.

He accepts the coffee, takes a sip, and curses mentally.

It’s good. It’s still always, infuriatingly good.

He fucking hates it.

He looks up to thank Akira, his manners still woefully intact, but the words die in his mouth when he notices the rapt fascination on Akira’s face. He’s watching Akechi enjoy his coffee with a self-satisfied expression, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing and nowhere else for him to be.

Akechi wants to slap the look off his face immediately.

 _Does he look at all his customers like this?_ Akechi wonders, unable to look away despite himself.

He narrows his eyes and nearly buries his face in his coffee, subduing a scowl.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he thinks, even as he watches how Akira’s eyes make their way back to Takamaki’s, twinkling in amusement at some joke that Akechi refused to listen to.

_Not like they get many customers around here anyway._

Akechi makes eye contact with Takamaki and finds her staring back at him, a curious tilt to her lips.

She smiles at him brightly. He flashes a tight-lipped smile in response. She takes that as an invitation, coming closer to the both of them, a fashion magazine held firmly in her hand.

“Akira!” she calls out as she sits at the counter, leaving one seat between her and Akechi. He begrudgingly respects her for it.

She points at something in her magazine enthusiastically. “What do you think of this one?”

“It’s… pretty?” Akira cautions.

Akechi snorts (quietly, and only to himself, like a respectable person). He couldn’t help himself; Akira’s completely out of his element.

“Akira! Be serious!”

“It’s beautiful!” Akira exclaims, exaggerated excitement coloring his voice as he lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She laughs along. “One day that’ll be you.”

“What are you looking at?” Akechi questions, feigning indifference.

“A fashion shoot that some of my older friends did,” Takamaki sighs, looking fondly at the pages. “It would’ve been fun if I could’ve joined, but they thought I was too young.”

“Too young?”

“Too young for something like a wedding shoot.”

_Wedding._

Right. Weddings. That’s something people his age think about occasionally. Might even desire for themselves one day.

A wedding, a commitment, to someone they love and plan on loving for a while. Getting to spend their lives by each other’s side.

Akechi never thought that far ahead before.

He knows, realistically, that there’s no reason to be so callous with his own life, that he’s far too young to worry about things like death when his whole life is allegedly in front of him. But the idea of anything permanent in a life that’s been so transient, anything that sticks when everyone’s done nothing but walk away, nearly makes him laugh in its absurdity.

Even the permanence of a relationship, hell, a friendship felt out of his reach. He watches her punch Akira jokingly before laying a hand on Akira’s forearm and yearns for their casual intimacy.

Akechi cradles his coffee close. She cradles Akira’s arm closer.

It’s friendly, he knows it has to be, because Akira wouldn’t lie to him and look at him that way during all their outings if he didn’t mean it. But there’s something so natural, so easy, so heart-wrenchingly normal about the way that _Ann_ and Akira fit together.

It’s a normalcy build and fortified by trust, the hopes of which Akechi shattered the moment he accepted his latest task.

It’s a normalcy they could never have.

(He doesn’t catch Ann’s whispered adorations over other women in the catalog, or her wistful glance when she pictures standing side by side with her best friend in complementary dresses.

His eyes are locked on the way Akira squeezes her hand, comfortingly and knowingly, and he accepts the beginning of the end.

He doesn’t notice Akira staring at him.

A ticking bomb with wild hair is looking at him, is always looking at him, and Akechi has to turn away before he blows the fuse.)  
____________________________

Ann eventually packs her stuff to leave and cheerfully bids a goodbye to Akira and Akechi with equal enthusiasm, blowing a kiss to Akira and sending a wide smile to Akechi.

He doesn’t pretend to understand her. But he wishes she was easier to hate.

Akira turns the sign to closed, shutters all the windows, and paces around the room, anxiously and feverishly cleaning up and avoiding eye contact with the boy precariously perched at the counter. It’s their shared routine, at this point.

Akechi remains motionless.

“Akechi,” Akira says, determination clouding the waver in his voice. Akechi commits the sound of it to memory. “Care to dance?”

Akechi doesn’t care to dance. He doesn’t care to do much of anything, and he knew that he shouldn’t be here, that he should’ve left as soon as Akira flipped the sign on the door and turned the lights down. He should’ve left when he had a chance. But now, when Akira is looking at him like he expects him to run away, he can’t help but defiantly lean his hand out over the kitchen counter, palm face up and open. Akira smiles, genuine and bright, and Akechi has to suppress a shudder at the sight of it.

“There’s no music.”

“Do we need it?”

“You can’t dance without music, Kurusu.”

“I don’t like playing by the rules, Akechi,” Akira says, and he’s close, so much closer than Akechi was prepared for. Akira looks down, braces himself, and lifts his eyes to meet Akechi’s. Akechi doesn’t have the courage to look away.

“I like you,” Akira murmurs, foolish hope replacing the usual impassivity in his expression as he gently takes and holds Akechi’s hand in his, “but you had to know that already. Right, detective?”  
____________________________

It used to be simpler.

Akechi was… a murderer, sure, but he was a murderer in a detached sort of way – it was a job, a mission, nothing personal in his decisions besides the one vendetta he pursued relentlessly. 

He used to be able to draw the line between personal and professional, Black Mask and Detective Prince, and pretend like the two never had to meet.

That is, of course, until he met Akira.

Akira, with his wild presumptions of justice. Akira, managing to somehow clash with both personas, diametrically opposed, that Akechi had learned to wield inside himself.

And Akechi wanted him.

He wanted Akira, and he knew this for a fact, knew this from the first day Akira stepped foot in his studio and had the nerve to challenge him on live television. He knew this from the first time that he realized Akira wanted to see past his facades and refused to cower at the person he found.

It terrified him.

He never craved for someone to see him more.

For weeks, they danced around it all, tension building to an insufferable degree as Akechi nearly choked on it. He’d close his eyes and see Akira everywhere, chastising him, teasing him, challenging him at every twist and turn.

Another late evening, just like this one, and the floodgates opened. Akira shut the lights, flipped the sign, sent Morgana off to hell knows where. Stared at Akechi like he struggled to understand why he still remained.

Akechi got up and made his way to Akira with fake bravado.

 _Akira_ , Akechi whispered, given name sounding like a prayer, Akira looking like all the answers to it.

Akira gently raised his hands, reaching out to cup Akechi’s cheeks, looking at him with an eternally unanswered question in his eyes.

_Is this okay?_

Akechi nodded, raising his own hands to press over Akira’s.

Akira leaned in, lips ghosting over Akechi’s, almost afraid to close the gap. Akechi chuckled, quietly.

_Isn’t bravery your specialty? I thought you were supposed to be a Phantom Thief._

Akira’s eyes flashed dangerously, lighting up from the challenge the way Akechi loved to see.

Akira kissed him, holding him so reverently, hands never breaking contact with his cheeks as Akechi’s fingers strained to interlock with his. Akechi forgot to breathe, even as Akira broke contact and began to kiss the corner of his lips, the high part of his cheeks, the tip of his nose. Akechi began to think that breathing was obsolete, anyway, since any moment not kissing Akira was a moment wasted.

His phone rang. Akechi felt Akira’s hands at his sides and forgot to care.

His phone rang, again.

 _Wait,_ Akechi managed to get out, fumbling for his phone in his front pocket. He saw the caller ID and froze.

_I have to take this._

Akechi was halfway out the door before he picked up Shido’s call, fourth ring of the second call ringing echoing menacingly down the street.

He looked back at Akira from the corner, watching as Akira leaned against the doorway, fingertips resting gently against his lips.

Shido ordered him to kill the leader of the Phantom Thieves. Akechi turned toward the station and remained silent.

It used to be simpler when Akechi could forget. When Akechi could lose himself in Akira’s presence, in Akira’s smile, and pretend like he was anything but the cold-hearted criminal that terrorized the Metaverse.

Akechi used to look at Akira and see an escape. A potential future free from Shido, where the chance for redemption awaited him, if only he was strong enough to reach for it.

Now, he looks at Akira and freezes over time and time again, seeing blood, endless amounts of blood pouring from the wounds that he’ll inflict, envisions himself standing over Akira’s lifeless body as he brutally murders the only person he ever dared to love.  
____________________________

Akira’s still staring at Akechi.

_I like you._

It plays on repeat. It taunts him in its sincerity.

He knows Akira, knows him better than he dares to know himself, so there’s really no excuse for the lapse in judgment that landed Akechi here in the first place. Nothing, not even the fire that lights up in Akira’s eyes just for him, should’ve allowed him to let Akira dim the lights in the first place (even though Akira looked so alive in the shadows), to make Leblanc a part of his routine (even though it was the only part of his day worth living for), to callously let these feelings fester without trying to stop them (even though Akechi knew, he always knew, just how weak he truly is).

And now Akira, dumb and foolish and beautiful Akira, is looking at Akechi and smiling softly, offering his hand (for a dance, for marriage, it’s all the same, isn’t it?) with a hint of desperation in his eyes.

And Akechi has to break him.

“I should go,” Akechi says, voice cold where heat fills his veins, snatching his hand back from where it burns in Akira’s. He stares into Akira’s face as it shifts from expectation into resignation. Akechi forces himself to sound calm, years of practice playing their role at keeping his voice level, even as his knees threaten to buckle.

His soul is on fire.

“Thank you. For the coffee, I mean.” He knows fully well that it was likely his last cup, still untouched on Leblanc’s counter.

Akechi isn’t blind enough to believe in hope anymore. Plans are in motion, pawns are in play, and the universe doesn’t care about his pitiful feelings.

There wouldn’t be another chance for coffee.

Akira hasn’t moved. Akechi gathers his briefcase and watches Akira’s hand clench against the counter where his hand used to rest.

He can almost feel the weight of it.

Akechi leaves Leblanc without looking back, the perfect image of nonchalance, but the autumn chill is no reason for how harshly his hands shake, for how often his breath catches as he walks away.

Against all odds, he thinks of that _stupid fucking magazine_ that Ann loves so much, welcoming the burn of jealousy that fills him when he imagines Akira with her instead. He almost wishes he could see their picture-perfect future, watch from the sidelines as Akira moves on, grows up, becomes happy without Akechi weighing him down.

He remembers that it’s all fantasy, after all, and that he’ll be snatching Akira’s future from him before he even has a chance to break his heart.

A scream rips out of his throat and fills the abandoned alleyway in Yongen-Jaya.  
____________________________

Akira walks alone through Tokyo. The twinkling lights remind him, rather belatedly, that it’s Christmas Eve, that the holidays are approaching, that his friends will take him to the shrine on New Year’s Day and that all festivities will proceed as normal.

It all mocks him to no end.

He meets Sae. She talks and he pretends to listen. Through it all, he sees a face flash before his eyes, lying in the engine room, contorted in unmasked torture. The memories haunt him relentlessly.

He’s nodding _yes_ to everything she’s saying before he can dare to stop himself, a moment away from signing away his life.

A voice calls out.

Their eyes meet.

Akira remembers what it’s like to breathe again.  
____________________________

And, honestly, Akira should’ve known having him back was too good to be true. Akechi is sharp around the edges, cutting everything standing in his way with a ferocity Akira hasn’t seen outside the engine room.

Akira scarcely knows how to handle him, but he loves it all the same.

He looks at Akechi in battle, using his hands to savagely tear apart shadows in the Metaverse, and feels the phantom touch of those same hands caressing his. He catches Akechi’s glances, more frequent and more blatant than ever more, but finds nothing aside from dispassionate regard (laced with a touch of murderous venom, ordinary for Akechi nowadays). He looks for any form of longing in Akechi’s eyes, but gets snapped at before he has a chance to find it.  
____________________________

Akechi slams him against the attic wall, mere moments after Maruki’s departure, mere seconds after Akira swears to him to end this once and for all.

Akechi fumbles with his clothes, and Akira is happy to assist. It feels like a death march, but Akira falls into his own bed pliantly, grateful for any chance to hold Akechi close again.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Akechi gasps, just as Akira noses along his jaw, leaving kisses and bruises in his wake. “Do you understand? This can’t mean anything.”

Akira, consumed by the smell, sight, sheer presence of Akechi in his bed, nods in understanding. Above him, Akechi loses himself with every passing minute.

“You won’t remember me,” Akechi snaps, threading fingers through Akira’s hair and pulling harshly while Akira whimpers out in agony, right on the precipice, “you won’t, and you’ll be fine, it’ll all be fucking fine, Akira. Let it go.”

Akira does. He lets go, mind still hazy, falling backward with a sigh and keeping himself close as Akechi closes his eyes.

“You’ll be happier without me,” Akechi manages to gasp out in finality, just as his body gives out, broken and spent entirely.

And Akira would’ve responded, had the retort ready at the tip of this tongue, was ready to beg for Akechi to stay with him (even though he couldn’t), to want to be alive again (even though he wasn’t, not really, not in the way that mattered), to fight for his life like it mattered (and find a home within his arms). But Akechi chose that moment to nose gently against Akira’s jaw, using the last of his post-orgasm high to caress him tenderly, and Akira lost all trains of coherent thought in his desperation to commit it all to memory.

The next day, Akechi is anything but tender. He’s desperate and unhinged in his quest for death and freedom.  
____________________________

_You won’t remember me._

Akechi said it like a promise. He counted on Akira to forget him, to be the last loose end neatly tied up before leaving Maruki’s reality.

Except he didn’t. He couldn't.

Akira knew that forgetting Akechi was never going to be an option, even if he had wanted to (he never wanted to), even if he desperately drowned himself in friends and missions to escape the gaping Akechi-sized hole left in his life (that he poked and prodded at relentlessly, expanding the edges, making it take up more and more space until he could barely breathe with how much he missed him).

When Akechi had the nerve to come back into his life like nothing ever happened, like Akira didn’t spend the last two weeks mourning in silence as the world kept spinning, Akira realized that the last thing he could ever do was forget him.

And when he lost him again, the pain felt like a welcome relief, somehow. It was a familiar feeling after a month of stolen time. A month of longing gazes met with cruel, soulless smiles.

One moment of weakness to top it off, to make Akira yearn desperately for what might’ve been, before Akechi condemned himself to death.

Unbeknownst to Akira, Akechi watched him – watched him in his mourning, watched him in his silence, watched him as he flirted and laughed with others in a last-ditch attempt to be okay again. He desperately hoped Akira would use this second chance.

Akechi’s last cruelty played out as he walked by Akira’s train, aching for one last look and unable to contain himself, before leaving his life forever.

**Author's Note:**

> producing sad content on 2/2 should be a sin. I'm a sinner
> 
> come yell at me on [twt](https://twitter.com/comfrtcharacter)


End file.
